


Ships in the night

by MidLifeLez



Category: Berena - Fandom, Holby City
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:00:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9712496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidLifeLez/pseuds/MidLifeLez
Summary: This was my entry for @lunacatriona's Holby City Fanfic Contest 2.0*, where it bombed spectacularly, but it's short and fluffy enough for a spot of Valentines reading, so here you go.*Voting closed yesterday so I figure it's OK to out myself now.





	

It had always been the case that they worked opposing shifts on Thursdays, Serena on earlies and Bernie on lates, and even once they were living together – especially _because_ they were living together, Serena wouldn’t change it. She might frequently be caught gazing soppily across the ward at the trauma surgeon, but Serena Campbell MBA was not going to arrange the rota around her personal life, thank you very much.

Yet it was Serena who complained most about it, coming home tired and a little jaded just as Bernie was getting ready to go in. “We’re like ships in the night,” she called through the bathroom door, listening to Bernie towelling herself down. The door opened just wide enough for Bernie to poke her head out and kiss the end of her nose. “It’s once a week, Serena,” she chuckled. “Hardly the world’s busiest shipping lane, is it?” Strands of wet blonde hair clung to Serena’s cheek. “I still don’t like it,” Serena huffed, teasing them away and running her finger through Bernie’s fringe.

So that’s how it became a thing.

Now when Serena got home on a Thursday afternoon, instead of finding the radio on and Bernie singing tunelessly along to the final words of each lyric, she would head straight to the ensuite to find Bernie waiting in a hot bath amidst a mountain range of bubbles, candles lit on every available surface. The first time there had been a piano concerto playing quietly from an iPod in the corner, but Serena, one eyebrow raised in amusement, had switched it off. “Too much?” Bernie had asked, scrunching her nose up in that way that made Serena melt.

Climbing in to Bernie’s embrace was the perfect way to wash off her shift. She didn’t need to narrate the day’s events, to explain that the patient who’d seemed to be doing so well yesterday had taken a dramatic turn for the worse or to complain that the ward seemed to be full of middle-aged men with raging libidos and a minimal understanding of body language. She could just drop her head back onto Bernie’s shoulder, her skin swiftly reddening in the hot water, close her eyes and let it all go. They would lay in warm silence, tealights flickering at the edges of their vision, each feeling the other’s heart beat against their skin and recognising in it the rhythm of the universe.

Eventually, but only once they were really and truly pruney, Bernie would step out and turn to offer Serena her hand before wrapping her in a fluffy towelling gown identical to her own (Serena’s idea, and she’d delighted in using the phrase ‘hers and hers’ repeatedly at the till before Bernie had begged her to stop). Then she would steer Serena to the bed, lay her down and fetch the body lotion that smelled of pink grapefruit and jasmine. Serena had started getting home from the hospital earlier, and Bernie arriving there later, to make time for Bernie to rub the lotion into Serena’s weary limbs.

There was a frisson – _of course_ there was a frisson; _nothing_ could be inert when these two were in close proximity – but this wasn’t about sex, or foreplay. Serena would watch the little frown on Bernie’s brow as she carefully massaged each of her toes, the balls of her feet, her heels, and marvel at this act of care that was now bestowed upon her each week, no matter what, simply because she had grumbled about the rota. Knowing that Serena would sooner take up Morris dancing than ask a colleague to take the increasingly busy Thursday night shift from Bernie (it being the new Friday and all), Bernie had simply set about making the hour and a half they had together that day one of Serena’s favourite parts of the week.  

Sometimes, most times, Bernie would start at Serena’s feet and work her way up her legs, her back, her arms, pressing the tension out of every muscle until she could rest her hands on Serena’s shoulders, whisper “OK?”, and kiss her before getting dressed. Sometimes she’d start with the shoulders and work her way down, finishing by making playful conversation with 10 “little piggies” before pulling on her clothes. But always, always, she left Serena with the same words: “I can’t control the wind, my darling, but I can adjust the sail.”   



End file.
